Somebody that I used to know
by aliena wyvern
Summary: Two people who have been carefully avoiding each other for nearly a decade stumble upon each other in Skyhold.
1. Chapter 1

**English is not my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. If someone wants to point them out, they are welcome.**

 **A sad little something I wrote because my current world state frustrates me. Like, really. So basically, my City Elf Warden replaces Stroud/Loghain/Alistair in Inquisition.  
**  
 **Current world state:**  
 **Kallian Tabris, rogue, Assassin, romanced Alistair, hardened him, spared Loghain and married Alistair to Anora. Bhelen is King, the Anvil is destroyed, the Werewolves are cured, the Mages are saved, Loghain is Kieran's father, the Architect is alive.**  
 **Marian Hawke, Blood Mage, romanced Anders, killed him after the destruction of the Chantry, killed the Arishok, sided with the Mages.**  
 **Ellana Lavellan, Mage, Knight Enchanter, romanced Cullen, allied with the Mages and the Grey Wardens, Celene and Briala rule together, Inquisition disbanded.**  
 **1 out of 3 who gets a happy ending. That's not bad, I guess.**  
 **Am I pro-Mages? Nooooo, absolutely not ;D**

* * *

Chapter 1

Skyhold was _cold._  
Alistair tightened his leather coat around his body, trying to retain whatever remained of warmth in his limbs.  
Damn.  
He missed Ferelden. Denerim and its damp, yet warm weather.  
Did the Inquisition really needed to establish its stronghold in those bloody mountains?

He was being unfair, he knew it. The weather was not the only reason for the coldness that seemed to seep into his flesh. The Calling at the back of his mind, whispering its poisonous tune, was not helping.  
 _False._  
 _False Calling_ , he had to remind himself. He was not dying. Not yet, anyway.  
The Inquisitor had affirmed as such. An infect parody, created by an Ancient Darkspawn Magister, to lure the Grey Wardens into desperate measures. Into betrayal.

He could not take out the cold out of his bones.  
He had not been an active Grey Warden for then years, and yet...and yet he had been reminded of his inexorable fate with most displeasure. When the time comes, he would have to go to the Deep Roads, and die. Being the King of Ferelden would not save him in the end. He would die alone under a rock. It was hardly cheering.  
What a fool he had been.  
 _You can't leave the Order like that, Alistair._  
 _Oh yes, I can._  
She had been right, ten years ago. She had been right.  
A fool, indeed.

The Inquisitor reminded him of her. Not because of the similar shape of their ears or eyes, but because there was a fire, a fierceness in Ellana Lavellan that matched the one that had been burning in Kallian Tabris' heart. A fire he had extinguished, he knew it.  
He had not seen her in ten years. _Nine years and a half._ Once, in Amaranthine, after the Blight. And her eyes had been cold and dead, showing no sign of love or acknowledgement at his sight. And he had been too deep in his resentment to care.  
He had cast her aside, or perhaps it had been her who did.  
It had seemed a good idea, at the time. She had spared Loghain Mac Tir, after all, stabbed him in the back at the worst moment possible, and that was something he could never forgive. And she had put him on a throne he did not want and put a crown on his head that was too heavy for him to bear and shattered his heart in hundreds of pieces.  
It had seemed fair, to do the same.  
A fool.

Afterwards, he had seen Sten's disapproving look, Morrigan's poisonous glares, Leliana's sad eyes and Zevran who was playing ostensibly with his daggers while staring at him. He had heard Oghren's disgusted snorts, and Shale's mumbling about _crushing it's head until there's nothing left. A_ nd then the dog who would not even let him stroke him behind the ears as he used to do, and Wynne...  
Oh, Wynne had been the worst. The closest thing to a Mother he had ever had, who simply looked disappointed. He had _disappointed_ Wynne.  
 _I was afraid that she would be the one to hurt you,_ she had simply said. _I was wrong._  
And she had left, and they had never spoken again. She was dead, now, Wynne. And she had died in the arms of her son, her _real_ son, and by that time she had needed him, Alistair, no longer.

He had deemed them all unfair, at the time. He had cursed them to the Void, for turning their back on him. He had pretended not to care, even though it hurt just as bad as the day Eamon had sent him to the monastery.  
And he had resigned himself bitterly to his royal fate, and had not been at their, _her_ side to take down the Archdemon. And knowing that _she_ , _them_ , _all of them_ , even _Loghain_ , had survived...it had seemed unfair, too.  
And _she_ , _they,_ had all left. And he had remained.  
 _Alone._

Well, not exactly.  
He had inherited of Anora.  
He had expected a nightmare.  
It had not been.  
He liked her enough, ten years later.  
Not _love_.  
Love he could not.  
But _like_...  
She was sweet, in private. Strong but sweet. She had been hurt. She liked power and he had given her that and so they had gotten along quite well in the end. Ferelden was prosperous again.  
He was content.

Anora had given him a son.  
It seemed that after all, Anora Theirin, née Mac Tir, widow of Cailan Theirin, was not the barren one.  
There had been suspicions of course. But the boy was _his_ , there was no denying it, even with the Taint in his blood. His sweet little Duncan, who had his eyes and his freckles and his dimple at the corner of his mouth. His son, that he loved more than anything, and who yet was the living proof of the promise that he had broken.  
 _You're the first woman I have ever spend the night with, and if I have my way, you'll be the last._  
He still remembered the first time he had woke up alone in his bed and searched frantically for her between the sheets, finally to remember that she was _not_ there and never would be anymore. He had felt so _lonely_. And then, there had been Anora and well...  
He was a weak man.

And had she not broken her promise as well?  
There had been rumors, whispers in the street that he had at first refused to hear, but that had still found their way and crept into his heart like poison.  
That she had bedded Teagan Guerrin the night before the army left Redcliffe to march on Denerim, something that his uncle did not even bother to deny. A few weeks, and she was already in another man's arms.  
That she had taken lovers, in Amaranthine. Sometimes, it was the Howe whelp, sometimes the serial-escapist Apostate, whose name he could not remember. Sometimes both of them at the same time.  
Sometimes it was about Loghain, who should have been sent far, far away in Orlais by the First Warden, had she not fought tooth and nails to keep him by her side.  
And sometimes, Zevran's shadow that...  
Sometimes.  
It brought pictures in his mind, that burned behind his closed eyelids even as he did not wanted to see. He would press his fists against his eyes, hoping that it would make them disappear. But it would not.  
And, Maker forgive him, the very thought of her, bare and offered, body arching beneath someone that was not him, beneath hands sliding over her skin that were not his own, was enough to make him feel sick.  
But she was not his, never his, and so he had no right to expect her to respect an oath he was himself no longer entitled to.

He had his son. He had his wife. He had Ferelden.  
He did not had her, he did not even know where she was, if she was safe, if she was hearing the Calling as well. And she did not need him, had not needed him for ten years, and it was what was best.  
He was content.  
But right now, he was cold.  
Dammit.

The fire was running low in the latge stone chimney. The Inquisition had given him a spacious and elegant room, with a large four poster bed, a desk and even a balcony. Fit for a king, one could say. Lady Montilyet was delightful host...and a wise tactician. She knew how to wrap her guests around her little finger. Let alone the royal kind of guests.  
He thus had appartments with a view, as far as he could gaze, upon the Frostback and what was beyond. _Ferelden._ His entire kingdom seen from the top of a mountain.  
It was breathtaking.

He also had a sight on the gardens, but he avoided looking down there. Because Morrigan seemed to have elected the place as her personal study. And every time he would venture on the balcony, she would lift her head and glare at him with her cold golden eyes, as if she wanted to set him on fire. Which she could probably do, but that was not the point.  
The Witch had changed.  
They had barely spoken, since he had arrived to Skyhold with his suit and soldiers. Curtesies. Nothing more. Yet this Morrigan was not the Morrigan he had travelled with and hated with all his heart ten years ago.  
She was softer. Quieter. She no longer seemed to rejoice in the pain that usually came in people's eyes with every single venomous word dripping out of her mouth. Her thorns seemed to have dulled with time.  
The child was certainly no stranger to this.  
Yes, Morrigan had a _child_. A rather sweet boy of something like ten years old, who looked and behaved nothing like her. A boy she doted upon and looked at as if he was the greatest wonder in the world. It was...disturbing, to say the least. But he remembered the birth of his own son and how he had instantly fallen in love with the tiny pink bundle writhing in Anora's arms.  
Somehow, he understood.

A decade and a child. That had been enough to change him. Why would it not be the case for her as well?  
He was still uneasy in her presence, but the change was not unwelcome. Perhaps, with time, they would one day be able to lead a civilized conversation, like old friends.  
He had no idea who the boy's father was, though. Knowing Morrigan, he in fact did not want even to know. At all.

Alistair wandered to the balcony, tightening his furred coat around him, and looked over the railing with caution. There she was, the Swamp Witch, on her entitled stone bench. Except that this time, she did not lift her eyes to prey over him.  
There was someone sitting on the bench with her, whose conversation apparently seemed more worthy of her attention than him. He felt a bit slighted.

Alistair squinted his eyes. Too far beneath him. He could not distinguish the person's features, that were hidden under a cowl. But he, or she, more likely _she_ , was wearing a Grey Warden armor, the blue leathers and silver griffons shining under the pale winter sun.  
Another Warden.  
Another poor soul that was likely tortured by the insidious song of the false Calling, seeking refuge in Skyhold instead of Adamant Fortress like her brothers and sisters.  
The Inquisition's famous Warden contact, perhaps, that had uncovered Corypheus' plot, and whose name and identity he had not been given access to.  
 _Maker._  
He missed wearing the Grey Warden uniform, so light and supple. So much better than the fancy silk clothes or the heavy plate armors adorned with gold that a King had to tuck himself into. But he was a Grey Warden no longer, except for the Taint running in his blood. And he could sense the Taint in the Warden below too, calm, dormant almost. At least, he had not lost that.

Alistair saw the lad, _Kieran_ , running through the bushes, right into the arms of her mother, and the Warden pat his head awkwardly. The King sighed. He missed his son, too. His laughter. His smiles. His sweet little boy.  
The Warden sat up and said something, and Morrigan laughed and waved. Little Kieran took the Warden's hand and followed as she turned away, the boy hopping by her side.  
And then...  
 _What guidance did you find in those swaying hips, uh?_  
Curious, to think of Wynne, dear departed Wynne. What did it had to do with...

The King raised a hand to shield his eyes from the pale morning sun. He needed to see better. The Warden had a slight limp, but he indeed _knew_ the sway of those hips. He had felt it under his gaze and in his hands, warm flesh and bones rolling beneath his clutched fingers. Once. In another life.  
 _No, no, no, I wasn't looking at her...hindquarters. I gazed...glanced in that direction._  
How innocent he had been.

His fists clenched convulsively, and so did his heart. There was only one person in this blighted world that Morrigan was close enough with to entrust with whatever child she would have.  
 _Kallian Tabris.  
_ The Hero of Ferelden, Arlessa and Warden Commander of Amaranthine, was there, at Skyhold, and he had not been informed of it. A flaw in Lady Montilyet's plan? Or perhaps in Leliana's? She, too, had changed. She was no longer the sweet and shy Chantry sister he had met in Lothering. She was cold now, cold and hard as steel, and she frightened him.

In the garden, Morrigan lifted her head from her book and looked at him, malevolent golden eyes veiled under her thick lashes like those of a predator. One of those wolves she could take the shape of. The _B...Witch_ of the Wilds was probably smirking.  
He could not be sure.

* * *

 **There should be five chapters, maybe more...Give me your thoughts! What do you want to see next?**


	2. Chapter 2

**I will include a lot of my personal headcanons in this fic, including the fate of some of the other origins that did not become the Warden. In this chapter, there is a mention of Solona Amell. In a relationship with Cullen, died during Uldred's uprising. Neria Surana will also appear at some point in the story.  
**

 **Ann(guest): thank you ;D**

* * *

Chapter 2

The Inquisitor had something going on with the Commander of her armies. Shy touches, faint blushes and awkward smiles. A beginning.  
Maybe because he was getting old, but Alistair found that strangely endearing.  
A Dalish Apostate and a former Templar. The Maker had a strange sense of humor.  
He remembered vaguely Ser Cullen Rutherford from Kinloch Hold. The broken, terrified, half mad boy trapped behind a magical barrier, mumbling insanities about Blood Mages and Abominations and a dead girl named Solona Amell, had nothing to do with that strong, confident man standing behind the small elven woman, looming protectively over her.  
Alistair's lips slightly curved.  
The Commander's hand had found its way to the small of the Inquisitor's back, immediately to retreat as if the simple touch had set it on fire. Both of them were now looking away, red-faced, while Lady Montilyet was carrying on about Adamant Fortress, rented trebuchets and opportunist nobles.  
"They're disgusting, aren't they?"

He glanced at the woman standing against the wall behind him.  
"Serah Hawke", he said.  
He had only met her once, when she was still a hero and not a wanted Apostate on the run. It had been a few years since, and she, too, had changed. She looked older. Bitter. Sharper. Her pale blue eyes looked too large for her thin face framed by straight black locks. The red smudge accross her nose looked dirty on her skin. He did not know if it was dried blood.  
Perhaps it was better not to ask.  
"They look so stupidly happy", she whispered sadly.  
"That they do", he agreed reluctantly.  
"They'd better enjoy it while it lasts", Hawke said. "It never lasts. Eternal love and forever and happily ever after and all this kind of bullshit. You know that, right?"

The King nodded and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had believed in said kind of bullshit, once. Kallian had proven him wrong. Or perhaps he had been the one to make the point. He could barely remember in which order it had happened.  
It had started with a rose and a smile and had ended with a crown and blood not spilt when it should have been.  
That was what he knew.  
"Hopefully, she won't have to kill him when he breaks her heart", Hawke sneered, fidgeting with the leather straps keeping her staff on her back.  
Alistair threw her an alarmed look.  
She shrugged, and tucked a stray black lock behind her ear, looking away.

"Warden Commander Tabris will accompany us to Adamant Fortress", the Inquisitor suddenly said. "If you'd like to come along, Messerah Hawke..."  
"Of course", the woman said.  
"Will your forces be assisting us as well, your Majesty?"  
"As far as possible", he said.  
That particular formula he had borrowed from Anora and years of watching her handling the nobles' requests. Not a _yes_ and not a _no_. Somewhere inbetween.  
He had come with a very few number of soldiers, and Ferelden's forces would never reach Adamant Fortress in time. Besides, they would never let him fight in person. The burden of being too important to waste.  
He was a King, and he felt useless. He was a Grey Warden, the ones he once called brothers were going mad, and there was not much he could do about it.  
Cursed be the day that had seen this stupid crown being put on his head.

Hawke remained silent for the rest of the war council, her jaw painfully clenched and her dark brows furrowed. She was glaring at the Inquisitor and her lover as if the sight of their awkward attempt at discretion offended her.  
Alistair could almost hear Wynne chuckle.  
 _Ah, young love._  
It was beautiful indeed, when it was young. Before the ugliness came.  
Growing old together? A joke. A slow decay.  
He had had a year, with Kallian. A year, and suddenly nothing. _Ashes._ Sometimes, he could still feel the sour taste in his mouth.

"A word, Leliana", Alistair said afterwards, when everyone was gone, scattered in every corner of Skyhold. "In private."  
She lifted an elegant brow under her cowl.  
It had been good, to see her again. She looked as young and beautiful as ever, but her eyes were old, and he suddenly realized that he had never known how old she exactly was. She was ageless. And he knew better than to ask such a thing from a lady. Anora had groomed him well. She was excessively proud of it.  
The King took a deep breath.  
"You did not tell me that the Hero of Ferelden was here, in Skyhold."  
'Has it been so long", the Spymaster retorted, "that you cannot even remember her name or bear to pronounce it?"  
"Leliana", he warned, tightening his fists.  
He did not wanted a fight. That was difficult enough.  
"You would have found out eventually", she sighed.  
"What is she doing here?" he asked.

Leliana snorted.  
"What do you think? Helping the Inquisition. Saving the Wardens. Just like everyone else here. She has been the one to uncover Clarel's betrayal."  
That looked like something she would do, indeed. Sticking her nose where people did not want her to. Throwing herself right into trouble.  
"And the other Fereldan Wardens?"  
He dreaded the answer.  
Her Grey Wardens, that she had patiently recruited and formed, were they gone, too?  
Of course, there was in the bunch Oghren, that walking disaster, and Loghain the murderer, and, _Maker help him_ , her said lover, Nathaniel Howe, but they were her brothers in arms before being anything else. And Anora would not take kindly the sacrifice of her thrice cursed father in a weird blood magic ritual supposed to unleash the armies of doom on the world. Besides, the wretched man's blood was certainly able to make it even worse.  
"They are safe."

The former Bard shook her head, her ginger curls bouncing softly.  
"Just stay away from her, your Majesty."  
"What makes you think I even want to see her?" Alistair snapped bitterly.  
Nine years and a half spent carefully avoiding each other. Making himself conveniently absent when she was in Denerim while she was doing exactly the same when he had to visit Amaranthine. Until now, it had worked quite well.  
"Oh, but you do", Leliana said. "And that's why I'm warning you. Stay away from her."

And she was right, of course, and Wynne had been right from the beginning, too, and he had not listened.  
He was a fool.  
He knew it.  
Not that it would change anything.  
That was probably the reason why he wandered Skyhold on his own all day like a lost soul, searching for someone he dreaded to find, hoping that he, in fact, would not.  
Because he was a fool, and it was a fool's errand.  
But they were both trapped between those thick stone walls, without the possibility of running away, and likely doomed to bump into each other at every moment. And he would not be the one taken off guard this time, nor would he pose at the coward of the two.

She knew he was there.  
The King of Ferelden's presence in Skyhold was hardly something that could go unnoticed. Too many feathered orlesian lordlings chatting and gossiping like insufferable peacocks in the main hall and the guest quarters. There was no way avoiding these people. They were absolutely _everywhere_. Like fleas in a Mabari's fur.  
He did not know what had happened to Barkspawn, Kallian's dog. He had been the one to choose the name, and he had been rather proud of the pun, at the time. And she had laughed and smiled, and it had startled him, because it had been the first time she had done so.  
Before that, he had thought that her angry scowl was stuck forever on her face and that all she could do was snarl and hiss like an disturbed cat.  
And then he had made her laugh, and that had left him stunned, and he did not know if she was still able to laugh and if he would ever hear it again.  
Probably not today.

He visited the barns, and she was not there.  
He visited the crypt, and she was not there.  
He visited the Tavern, the well-named _Herald's rest_ , and she was not there.  
He avoided the gardens, mainly because of Morrigan, but he knew she was not there either. Too many people at this hour of the day. She did not like crowds. And what a crowd it was. Elves, Human, Dwarves, Mages, Templar, Nevarrans, Tevinters, Fereldans, Orlesians, Antivans, Rivaini, and even a bear, an Avvar and a gigantic Qunari, next to whom Sten would have looked like a cute little puppy. But none of them were her.  
She was not there.  
He visited the Library, and the mages' quarters, the forge, the rookery, and even the pantry, and she was not there.  
So he headed for the Chantry, which was a stupid idea because he could not remember her as a religious person, and of course when he pushed open the heavy door, she was not...  
 _She was there._

It was dark and the dim lighting came from the candles and the flame burning in the statue of Andraste's hand, but he knew it was her, standing straight before the altar, hooded head bowed, the silverite clasps of her Warden uniform glowing red.  
She was whispering something that sounded nothing like the Chant of Light, a low humming his ears were not sharp enough to understand. Perhaps she was not even praying.

Alistair stepped in silently, cautiously shutting the door behind him. Her back stiffened slightly, and her chant ceased. She stood still, unmoving. Probably waiting for him to go. And indeed, he felt like trespassing.  
But he was Alistair the Fool. And fools are a stubborn kind.  
"Kallian", he said softly.  
And so, in a slow movement that seemed to last for an agonizingly long time, she turned around to face him.

* * *

 **to be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Huge thanks to: Maireh, Temril6895, jackie1504 and kbrock1 ;D**

* * *

Chapter 3

"Your Majesty."  
There.  
 _Your Majesty._  
Not _Alistair_. Not anymore. For most of the people, he was _your Majesty_ or _your Highness_ or _your Grace_ , or _your Lordship_ or any other stupid titles the world deemed fit to bestow upon him. Sometimes, it seemed that he was only a _title_. Not even a person. An entity. A symbol before whom people had to kneel and look up for guidance.  
A pity that he still struggled to adjust, after ten years like that. A King could not afford such sentimentality.  
But he missed being simply Alistair.  
Where had that boy gone, he wondered.  
Disintegrated in a flash of light with the Archdemon, perhaps. But nor Alistair nor the King had been there that day, on top of Fort Drakon. Instead, there had been a Grey Warden and a Dog and a Witch and a Traitor.  
So it must have been in another way.  
He had entered the Landsmeet Chamber a _Bastard_ and had went out of it a _King_ and somewhere between these two point, Alistair the Boy, Alistair the Templar, Alistair the Grey Warden had been murdered.  
And his murderer was standing straight in front of him, and he did not have the strength to hate her anymore for that. Hate was too exhausting. And an incredible waste of time.

She was not kneeling.  
She did not kneel, he remembered, not ever. She went unbowed, ever since she had been thrust out of her Alienage directly into a Grey Warden's life, out of reach for those who would have forced her down on her knees. Knees that had simply lost their capacity to bend at some point, probably with the Arl's son's head.  
Not that he could blame her.  
But _your Majesty_. Really. As if he was just...that.  
Kallian had always spat titles like poison. _Arl_ Eamon. _Teyrn_ Loghain. _Queen_ Anora. _Bann_...no. He would not think about Teagan right now. Else he might scream.  
She had no respect for fancy titles, for people who thought that the sun shone out of their arses and that they were better than the rest of the world because they were born in the best place at the best time.  
Yet she had not disdained him, the Bastard Prince.  
 _You are a strange human_ , she had said instead.  
Because, just like her, he had always been misplaced. An embarrassment. A pointy-eared street rat, and a royal bastard. They had made quite the pair.  
And now he was a King, and had a fancy title and a crown and no one ever dared anymore to tell him that he was not were he was supposed to be. In her eyes, he probably was no better than the rest.  
A filthy _Shem_.  
That had used her and claimed her and then cast her aside as if she had been nothing.  
 _Oh Maker._  
Please let him still be more than that.

"Warden Commander", he said stiffly.  
There was an awkward silence, after that.  
"What are you doing here?" she asked, staring at him with her emotionless gaze.  
"I wanted to see you", he said. "You?"  
"Hiding, actually", she sighed. "And you found me. Congratulations."  
That explained the Chantry, at least. She knew him better that he thought, and so did he.  
"What are you hiding from?"  
From _him_ , of course. She did not want to see him. Still did not. And she would walk past him and go away and she would hide for good, and he would never find her again.  
"Not from you, if that's what you mean", she said. "From Kieran."  
Well. That was unexpected.  
"You are...playing hide-and-seek?"

She shrugged.  
A light brown lock escaped her cowl, and she tucked it back behind her pointed ear. The tip was missing. Not much, but it was noticeable. He knew the shape of her ears by heart. He had retraced them with his fingers enough times for that.  
"I'm good at that."  
"Yes, I can see that", he snapped dryly. "Was it all a game then? All these years?"  
She averted her gaze.  
"I've been busy."  
"Have you?"  
Tabris straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.  
"Do you have a point, your Majesty?"  
"Stop calling me that", he said.  
She hiked a brow.  
"Is that not what you are?"  
"Yes...no", he said.  
She smirked.  
"As you wish... _Alistair_."  
He did not like the way his name sounded in her mouth. It fell flat. As if all its meaning had disappeared only to leave an empty shell.

The King clenched his fists.  
"You made me this", he hissed through clenched teeth. "You wanted this."  
Had she forgotten already?  
"Don't", she warned, recoiling like a snake. "I've already heard all you could possibly have to say."  
 _There isn't an "us". There's me, and then there's the woman who spared Duncan's murderer._  
He could still hear his own voice, years later, bitter and cold, burning to ashes the few that was already left of them  
He had _not_ , however, seen the horrified look on her face, from love to disbelief to despair in a single second.  
He had _not_ seen the way her legs trembled as she took a step back, staring at him with wide, blank eyes, as if he had struck her.  
He had _not_ been the one to flee the room.  
He had _not_ seen her crumble to the floor.  
He had _not_ heard her anguished, heartbroken sobs.  
He had _not_ almost gone back.  
 _He had not._  
No, he had not.  
It was easier like this, wasn't it?  
"I don't know what you want from me, Alistair, and frankly I don't care", she said, and walked past him toward the door. "But there's nothing for you here."  
She was limping. It did not seemed new. As if she was used to it. An old wound, then. The sway of her hips was the same, and yet it seemed...denatured. She had been hurt. She had been _hurt_ , and he had not been there.  
And now, she was leaving.  
 _Again._  
His mind went blank.

He caught her arm as her hand reached the handle, and suddenly, he was against the wall, and there was a dagger at his throat, the sharp tip digging in his skin. A drop of blood slid along his neck, soft and warm.  
Her cowl had fallen back, and her face came into full light, inches from his, her freed hair falling loose over her face.  
He flinched slightly.  
It was her, and _not_ her. It was a _stranger_ , in front of him, a stranger that looked painfully familiar. A stranger that had her delicate elvish features, her nose, her freckles, her high cheekbones, her mouth and her chin and her scars, who was still as beautiful as he could remember, but whose hazel eyes were foreign and empty.  
She did not hate him, he understood.  
She did not despise him, she did not disdain him.  
She was not angry, she was not sad, she was not _anything_.  
She felt _nothing at all_.  
Somehow, it was worse.  
"Let me go", she said, and he realized he was still holding her arm.  
A single hand was enough to circle its entirety. Had she always been that...small? He could not remember. It had been so long since they had been this close.  
Reluctantly, he loosened his grip, and she jerked back from him, as far as she could. The dagger disappeared from his sight with a soft, velvety sound. How many weapons was she carrying on herself like that? She had obviously be hanging too long around Ze...  
No.  
He would not think of Zevran being with her either.

Tabris brought the cowl back on her head, carefully covering her hair and ears. She had retreated in the shadows, where the candle lights could not reach her. Daylight filled the chapel as she opened the door,  
"Kallian", he called back.  
She stilled, bracing herself against the stone doorway.  
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."  
She shook her head, and her eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, he thought he could catch a glimpse of the girl he had loved, all those years ago. Then it was gone.  
"So am I", she said coldly.  
She was silent for a moment.  
"But you were right, you know. There is no way to make that right. No way at all."

The door closed heavily behind her, shuffling some if the candles. He was left in half-darkness, under the blank eyes of the effigy of Andraste, that did not care, blind and deaf and dead to the world, and that yet seemed to have disapproval carved all over its stone face.  
Disapproval at his failure, perhaps.  
There was not many thing in his life in which he had not failed, one way or another.  
Bastard boy, unwanted, unwelcome, out of place.  
Failed Templar, unable to fit in the future that had been traced for him, unable to fulfill his duty to the Maker.  
Failed Grey Warden, unable to see beyond his hatred, to understand the real purpose of the Order he left.  
Failed lover, unable to understand the woman he loved, whom he had cast aside in the name of duty and betrayal.  
Failed father and husband, isolated on top of a mountain to speak of war, when he should have been with the family he had not really wanted and now missed terribly.  
All hail Alistair Theirin, the mighty King.

Kieran's voice suddenly chirped outside the Chantry.  
"You weren't hiding, that's not fair."  
He heard Tabris chuckle.  
"I was, little one", she said gently. "But someone found me. So I had to move."  
"Are they playing too?" the little boy asked cheerfully.  
"No, Kieran."  
She sounded...tired. Worn out. Perhaps she knew he could still hear her. Perhaps not. Perhaps she did not even care.  
"I don't think they want to play anymore."

* * *

 **To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

**In this chapter: more headcanons about Hawke, and some random apparitions of the DA:I cast (love them all so much). Mostly Cole. And Sera. I personally think she's actually Amethyne, because it makes some sense, and she physically looks like Iona.  
Also, mentions of Orsino and Meredith.  
**

* * *

Chapter 4

"I thought he'd understand. He loves me, does he not? He loves me. He loves me. He loves me? Why doesn't he understand? Why? Whywhywhywhy?"  
Alistair stared at the boy blankly. The boy that he was fairly sure had not been there a few seconds ago.  
"Cold", the boy said, his almost colorless eyes squinting. "I'm cold. I'm cold and he's not there. I need him. I need him. Please. I've lost him. And he's there and I'm warm again. Safe and wanted and loved. Except he's not there and it's not him, never him, none of them are. They comfort me and make me feel alive and awake but it's not him, it's not the same. I can't. I can't. Bring him back. Bring him back, please. I can't. He's not here. He's not mine."

He felt incredibly ill at-ease, now.  
Perhaps his decision to spend the evening at the _Herald's Rest_ to drink his confusion away was not that much of a good idea, after all. He had escaped the watchful eyes of his necessary but downright annoying personal guard, put on a hooded cloak and went and sat at a table and asked for a beer, and drank it. And then another. And another.  
No one was really paying any attention to him.  
Not that he minded, of course. As a King, he was, for his greatest displeasure, always surrounded by a flock of attention-seeking courtesans that were more of a nuisance than a rabid Darkspawn squad. It was good, to be a nobody again. Someone who still had the ability to go unnoticed.  
People knew who he was, of course, but were smart enough to leave him be. Or busy enough to leave him alone. Both were fine.  
Alone _and_ unbothered.  
Priceless, that people here seemed at least to respect that.

They were a strange bunch, that Inquisition.  
A story-telling Dwarf that had gathered a crowd around him and who was rambling something about a High-Dragon and a cave and glowing mushrooms.  
An aristocratic-looking Tevinter Mage that seemed smugly happy to sit accross the gigantic Qunari's lap.  
And a lithe Elven girl whose blonde hair looked like it had been cut with a rusted knife, and who kept throwing poisonous glares at him from behind her cup. She seemed familiar. He could not remember why, though.  
She knew something he did not, and apparently held a grudge against him for some obscure reason. He hoped that it was not that bad. He had had enough people trying to kill him already.  
"She's back", the boy said, sitting in front of him accross the table, staring at the Elf with pale eyes that were too large for his face, through ashen strands of hair covered by a rather strange hat. "She's back. She's home. We can play again. Please let us play again. She's got swords now. Real swords, not sticks. Why doesn't she want to play? She's back and it's her and not her and there's a shem with her and why is he looking at her like that? It's because of him she does not want to play. He can't. She can't. He has no right. It's filthy. It's just a shem. Just another filthy shem and he will use her like they use us all and..."  
"Sod it, Creepy", the girl snapped and took another swig of ale.

The boy shook his head sadly.  
"Cole! Are you bothering the King?"  
Seeker Pentaghast was striding confidently toward him, walking through the tavern in a manner that reminded him much of Anora in Court.  
"He's hurting", the lad blurted out, looking strangely distressed. "They're both hurting. It isn't right."  
"Maker's breath!" the Seeker swore.  
"But I only want to help! I can help! I can...", he cried.  
"That will be enough, Cole", the Nevarran said, and suddenly the boy was not there anymore, nowhere in sight.  
As if he had never been there in the first place.  
Gone.  
Just like that.  
Not even a puff of smoke.  
"I apologize for his behavior, your Majesty", Pentaghast sighed. "He meant no harm."  
"He is...rather strange."  
 _Strange_. Yes. That was the word. Strange. Everything was strange, the world was going mad, and it was overwhelming.

So he thanked Seeker Pentaghast, wrapped his coat around his body and went away in the night, away from the lights and the warmth and chatter and laughter. The cold nocturn air seemed to fill his lungs with ice spikes. It hurt, to breath, with the false Calling nagging at his mind, tearing his brain and soul apart, whispering and singing and so, so _wrong_.  
He would not sleep, that night. He knew it. He did not wanted the bligthed dreams to come. He had thought to be done with them a decade ago, and they were not exactly welcomed back.  
Blast that Darkspawn Maleficar. As if ordinary Darkspawn were not enough already.

"Did he suffer?" a hushed voice said, somewhere in the darkness of the courtyard.  
And it was _her_ , again.  
He looked over the railing of the stair leading to Skyhold's main hall. There was a vault, beneath it, and there was Kallian, leaning against the wall in the dark.  
"No", Hawke answered.  
He could not see her. She was probably somewhere beneath his feet, protected from the wind and perhaps the cold.  
They had lit a fire. Something small, not enough to warm them, but sufficient to see. A fireball, perhaps. Hawke was a Mage. She could certainly summon one.

He could see the flickering light, and the two women's shadows dancing slightly on the stone pavement. Eavesdropping was not usually his type. But then again...  
The woman's voice hitched.  
"I loved him. I loved him, dammit", she choked. "But I couldn't let him live. Not after...not after that. I couldn't let them take him. So I took a dagger and..."  
Hawke was crying.  
"I'm...glad", Kallian said. "He had suffered enough."  
The Mage laughed darkly.  
"Put him out of his misery, did I? Both of them?" she sobbed. "But he was happy, with me. I thought. I was wrong."

Alistair sat on the floor, the railing's cold stones digging in his back, holding his breath.  
"Meredith and Orsino...they were fucking", Hawke said. "You knew that?"  
Kallian remained silent. He thought for a moment that he had heard her armor creak, and he imagined her, sitting just below him, next to Hawke. Just listening.  
"In the end, they couldn't understand each other, it drove them mad, and it killed them both. It wasn't enough."  
The woman sobbed.  
"I have not understood. I wasn't enough", she said, her voice a trembling whisper.  
"As was I", Kallian whispered.  
No sadness in this simple statement. No regret. Nothing. A Void of feelings.  
"I miss him. He killed hundreds of innocent people, and I miss him", Hawke said.  
 _Anders._  
The Apostate's name. The Abomination. The mass murderer. He could remember it, now. How could he not?  
And then, there was this woman, this single woman, who was still able to mourn him.  
Despite everything.  
There was always someone. Even for monsters.

"I couldn't save him, and I couldn't save my city, I couldn't save my sister and my mother, and I couldn't even save his child."  
"You had a child?"  
Kallian sounded horrified, and Alistair winced. He had never liked hearing that hitch in her voice. It reminded him of Ostagar. Of Connor. Of the destruction of Lothering. Of Wynne's illness. Of her father in a cage. Of the Landsmeet and what had happened afterwards.  
"No."  
Hawke's tone was blank.  
"It is gone. I lost it. I failed. I killed him and I killed his child."

Anora had lost a child as well. Their first. He had held her hand as she cried afterwards.  
"The Taint killed it, Kallian said. Not you."  
Anora had lost their first child, and it had been his fault.  
Kallian would never have a child, and somehow, it was his fault, too.  
And he, he had this little wonder that was Duncan, and he was not sure that he deserved it. At all.  
Again, Hawke laughed.  
A high-pitched, histerical laugh, that sounded like a wounded animal's whine. He saw her shadow curl on herself in the fire's fading light.  
"And what difference does it make?"  
Kallian did not answer. There was no answer. _None._  
"Does it ever go away?" Hawke asked, broken. "The pain, I mean."  
"In time, yes", Tabris said slowly, and Alistair sighed in relief.  
"But sometimes, it comes back", she added.

There was a silence, after that. The King tightened his fists, keeping himself from hitting the wall until his hands were torn and bloodied.  
"After that, I need a drink", Hawke suddenly sighed. "Gonna stuff myself until I pass out. Coming with me?"  
He distinctly heard his... _the_ Warden chuckle without any enthusiasm.  
"Later, perhaps."  
"As you wish", Hawke said, probably shrugging.

She left the vault, and he shrank into his hiding place, out of her sight. Her shoulders were slumped, her walk uncertain. She looked defeated. Irreparably broken.  
Her lover was dead. Her mother was dead. Her sister was dead, and so was her child.  
She had nothing left.  
And nothing that she had lost could _ever_ come back.  
The King listened to the sound of her receding footsteps in the Courtyard, and watched her disappear in the Tavern. There was a cheering ovation when she entered, then nothing more than laughter and music.

"I know you're there, Alistair", Kallian's voice suddenly said, somewhere beneath him.  
 _Andraste's flaming knickers._  
What in the Fade had he been thinking?  
Alistair stood up and slowly went down the stairs. No more hiding. He would face this like a man.  
Tabris was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, illuminated in red and black by the dying fire. Her eyes were shining under the darkness of her hood. She was smirking.  
"Swooping on me?" she tsked. "How unkingly of you."

He lifted his stiff hands toward the embers. It was not enough to keep him warm, but agreeable nonetheless.  
Ten years ago, during cold nights like this one, he would have snuggled against her under the covers, and curl around her with nothing between them, naked skin against naked skin. And she would have giggled, because his feet would have been icy, and he would have kissed the nape of her neck and her jawline and her chin and her mouth to shut her up.  
Of course, that would have been ten years ago.  
"There's no escaping you, isn't it?" she said, sitting down, winding her arms around her knees.  
"Isn't that what you've been doing for ten years?" he pointed out.  
"You are a stubborn fool", she muttered.

He sat in front of her, at a respectful distance, leaving the embers between them.  
"That mage, Anders", he said. "You knew him well?"  
She shrugged.  
"I conscripted him. You were there."  
 _Ah._  
 _Yes._  
Nine years and a half ago.  
"He was a friend."  
"Friend?" he said. "Or lover?"

She studied him, the fire reflecting in her eyes. He couldn't help but sound bitter, and she had perfectly sensed it.  
"What does it matter to you?"  
"There have been...rumors", he admitted.  
He could not let her see that it could still hurt him. Yet it did. And it was like poison. Digging through his mind like voracious worms.  
He had to know.  
"Whoever I take to bed is no longer your concern, Alistair", she snorted.  
 _No longer._ But it had been, _once_.  
"I only ever had one lover. The others are...dalliances, I suppose."  
"Dalliances?" he asked in disbelief.  
"You abandoned me", she hissed. "You left me alone, and they gave me comfort. They made me feel wanted and loved. They treated me as a woman, and not just as your leftovers. What exactly did you expect?"  
"Kallian..."  
He had not seen it that way.  
He had thought to be the betrayed one.

"Do you love her?" she asked suddenly. "Your wife?"  
"I..."  
He did not answer.  
There was no answer.  
He did not know. Anora was beautiful. Anora was cunning. Anora was sweet and strong as a rock and had shared his life and warmed his bed and his heart for far much longer than Kallian ever had. Anora was the mother of his child.  
Did he love her?  
In a certain, peculiar way, perhaps.

His silence was apparently enough for Kallian.  
"Go back to her", she said. "Go back to her, go back to your son. They need you."  
So she knew. She knew about Duncan, about the most precious of his treasures. The child her barren womb, forever corrupted by the Taint, could never have given him, had life went on as he had so foolishly hoped.  
He could not have had them both.  
And yet.  
"He should have been yours", he said softly, sadly. "I wish he was yours."  
She shook her head and got up, stretching her limbs, flickers of light dancing on the silverite of her armor.  
"No", she whispered, and disappeared in the night.

* * *

 **To be continued...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Mentions of the Elven Mage Origin here. Neria is the one who helped Jowan and was made Tranquil as a punishment. She came from the Denerim Alienage and has been Kallian's childhood friend and neighbor.  
There's also a mention of Nelaros. My Warden kept his ring equiped the entire game, even though it did not have particular properties.  
** **I have this headcanon that my the City Elf Warden is illiterate at the beginning of the game, and that they learn how to read somewhere along the way.  
Light mature content.  
**

* * *

Chapter 5

It quickly became was some sort of a silent agreement between them. Small encounters. Quick words exchanged between doors or meetings.  
They would not seek each other, they would not try to make it happen. Perhaps it was not the wisest thing to do, but they could not simply ignore each other's presence when they happened to be in the same room.  
It was uncomfortable. Awkward. Difficult. Sometimes unpleasant.  
It often ended with one of them storming away in anger, much to Lady Montilyet's embarrassment.  
There was too much to say, and not enough, and ten years of words left unsaid were taking an heavy toll on both of them. But she was quieter, and he was wiser, and they were both responsible adults.

They could behave.  
And if there was something that they could agree on, it was that there was way too many Orlesians in that damn castle, who would undoubtedly notice Ferelden's King and Hero yelling at each other like scorned children, and then would gossip as if their life depended on it. Sometimes, even if it revulsed Alistair to admit it, he could almost understand Loghain's distate toward them. Those people were worse than the Plague, and the Grand Game they played more destructive than a Blight.  
It was saying much.  
So they talked of nothing, and anything, and they avoided being alone in each other's presence, fake smiles plastered on their faces, and it was for the better.  
Wasn't it what they were used to, after all?

They had never really been alone, ten years ago, when they were young and foolish and in love, or so he thought.  
Life at camp did not favour privacy. Living with a bunch of various and more or less insane people certainly not helped.  
He could still remember Morrigan's golden eyes staring heinously at his back, Sten's stern vigilance, Wynne's fussing, Zevran's crooked grin, Oghren's absolute lack of decency, Leliana's gentle voice other the cracking of the fire, the dog's barking, Shale's incessant complains about the birds and pretty much any living thing that would dare approach them, and somewhere near the tree line, Bodahn and Sandal taking care of their cart.  
It had been like living in a Chantry dormitory. With girls.  
And the first time they had really been alone, just the two of them in a tent...

The first time they had really been alone, they had made love. And the next. And the next. And the next after that.  
 _I want it to be with you. Here, at camp. In case..._  
He had not finished. She had not let him. She had taken his hand and led him away and then suddenly, he had been atop her in half darkness, her soft little mouth yielding under his own, and her arms and legs wound tight around his body, clutching at him as though she had been afraid to let him go.  
 _Have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?_  
He had been a maid, that night, and so had she. Both awkward, blushing, almost innocent lovers, that did not know what to do with each other. That is, until they had managed to get out of their clothes.  
She had been beautiful like that, her frail body painted with the moving shadows, the first woman he had ever seen bare and offered. He had just stared, for an awfully long time, a stupid grin probably plastered on his face.

He could still remember the hunger, the burning ache in his loins, mirrored in her eyes.  
And then he had slid between her open, waiting thigs, inside her, where it was so warm and sweet, and _oh_ , the sound she had made, broken and breathless, and he had been afraid, for a second, that he had hurt her.  
But she had opened her eyes, wide and astonished, looking at him as though he was the Maker himself, and she had seeked his mouth and claimed it, claimed _him_ , her hungry hands roaming over his skin, and it had seemed that after all, his body had not needed any teaching, to make her sing like he did.

He had felt so, so loved.  
Happy.  
Perfect.  
Right.  
Whole.  
But loved.  
Mostly loved.

And afterwards, as they laid interwined, their bodies spent and slick with sweat, the girl he loved curled on his chest, purring like a contented cat as he stroke her hair, he had heard Zevran whistle and Wynne chuckle and Oghren snort, and Morrigan's retching noise, and he had known that even in _that_ , they had not exactly been alone. But it had not mattered.  
He had been happy, because she was _his_. It had been enough, at the time.

Then, the Landsmeet had happened, and it, _all of it_ , had been over.  
Sleeping alone had proven itself difficult.  
Until Anora.  
Anora had brought back sleep, and warmth, and relief. Duty turned to trust turned to affection.  
Then their son.  
Being with her did not felt right, but it felt good.  
Anora, his lawful wife, the mother of his son, of his heir, who was the reason he felt guilty about thinking of his first lover and only love in a way that the Chantry would probably unleash the wrath of doom upon his head if informed.  
It was _adultery_ , and Cailan had inflicted enough of that on her already. She did not deserve such humiliation from him. Even if she had not seemed to mind his open affair with his fellow Warden by the time his lover was selling him to her like breeding cattle to secure her support against her father.

Things had changed, since.  
 _Everyone is out for themselves. That's a lesson you must learn,_ Kallian had said cynically _,_ outside Goldanna's house, where his foolish hopes had been so thoroughly crushed.  
How right she had been. How right, indeed.  
His lover had been given a choice, _him,_ or _Ferelden_. And in the end, she had chosen Ferelden. She had put her duty over her heart, and one could probably say that his anger at her decisions had made things easier for her.  
He had not understood, then.  
Now he did.  
 _Duty._  
Because of duty and of betrayal and of Ferelden, Kallian was not his, and he was not hers, and they could never be.  
It did not make things easier.

So they talked. Like a stranger would talk to a stranger, and not to the woman whose body he had worshipped a hundred times, with whom he had made plans for a future they never had. And it was also easier to talk about things that would not allow his mind to wander toward dangerous territories, too.  
 _Think Anora, Alistair. Think Anora._  
It did not work as well as expected. Not that he had really hoped otherwise.

She knew a lot of things, Kallian, and she trusted him enough to share. The perks of being Leliana's friend.  
She knew that every morning, the Warden who was not really a Warden, Blackwall, would wake up before sunrise, and leave Skyhold to climb in the mountains.  
She knew that every morning, flowers that only grew in said mountains inexplicably found their way to Lady Montilyet's desk.  
She knew that everynight, the Tevinter Mage would sneak in and out of the Qunari mercenary's quarters, and sometimes cross path with the Inquisitor coming from the Commander's office, and that they would share a knowing smile and say nothing.  
She knew, from a guard on the battlements, that the Commander's desk was very sturdy, and had seen a lot of unmentionable things. And apparently, so had the War Table.

She knew that somewhere in the Mages' quarters, there was a Tranquil Elf named Neria Surana, with whom she had grown up in the Denerim Alienage, until she was taken by the Templars at the age of eight for having set a cart on fire, and dragged to the Circle of Kinloch Hold. In chains. Like the worst of criminals. Only to be turned into a soulless slave a few years later, for having been tricked by a blood mage she had thought was her friend. If Alistair thought of Jowan, the Mage in Redcliffe Castle's cells, he did not say anything.  
 _She recognizes me_ , Kallian said bitterly. _She remembers me. But there's nothing left of her._  
That was a thing she knew, and it hurt her. And he wanted to hold her hand, but did not.  
She knew, also, that Schmooples, Leliana's Nug, was dead, and that he had offsprings, and that simple thought was enough to make him shiver.  
She knew that Solas, the Elven Apostate, could sleep and wander the Fade for days without awakening.  
She knew that Seeker Pentaghast had an entire collection of those sappy romantic novels that Varric Tethras wrote, and hid them under her bed, beneath a heap of old socks.

She knew a lot of things, indeed.  
And then there were the things she knew and would not tell him.  
She knew that her Wardens were safe, looking for a cure to the Calling that was nagging at their minds, but she would not tell him where they were.  
She knew who Kieran's father was, but she would not tell him. _Ask Morrigan_ , she had said, knowing he would not.  
She knew why Sera, the Elven archer, seemed to hate him so much, and she would not tell him.  
She knew who was Teagan's current mistress, and she would not tell him.  
He wished she could just tell him. He wished they were back under their small tent, just the two of us, without any secrets or words left unsaid.  
He wished.

It was like trying to coax into his arms a wild injured kitten that kept hissing and scratching with its little claws.  
He had asked her about the reason she had openly defied Weisshaupt's order to keep Loghain by her side instead of sending him to Orlais. She had shrugged and said that at the time she had needed all the Wardens available to fight the remaining Darkspawn. And that she had had no intention to let him out of her sight after all what he had done during the Blight. It had not been a satisfying answer. But speaking of it had upset her, and she had avoided him until the next evening.  
He had asked her about Nathaniel Howe, and she had backhanded him accross the face. It had been painful. To his pride as well as his flesh.  
He had asked about Loghain. She had asked if he wanted her to include him. And no. He did not. Anything but that. It was purely and simply disgusting.  
He had asked her about the limp, and she had said it was none of his concern. And then sighed and told him that a broodmother bigger and smarter than the rest had seized her and smashed her against a stone wall before dying. He remembered Laryn and Hespith and her blank eyes and horrid poem. That was not a pleasant memory. And now, she was crippled because of one of those horrible creatures he had sworn he never wanted to see again.  
But she did not want his pity.

She wanted nothing from him, and what he wanted to give her, he could not.  
So he had asked a lot of things, and he had not always received an answer.  
Maybe he should have gotten her alone, again. Maybe she would have spoken more freely. Or maybe she did not want to go back to what they had.  
It was an uneasy truce, one he was less and less willing to respect as time was running.  
 _Fool, Alistair, fool_ , Wynne was muttering in his mind.  
He stopped listening to her.

A morning came when Inquisitor Lavellan gave the signal for the armies to move and march on Adamant Fortress, and Skyhold was filled all day with the sound of weapons clashing, to the point it became overwhelming. It seemed that a metallic shroud had fallen over the fortress, and he did not like that.  
He saw her spar with the Qunari in the courtyard, her small body dancing around him like a will-o'-wisp, her twin daggers flashing in the mountain sun. And for a moment, he stopped breathing. Her hip was a drawback. It was an old wound, and she was used to it, and was still deadly but it was a flaw nonetheless.  
 _She might not return._  
She might not return, and he would not even be there, fighting with her to the end.  
He would stay in Skyhold, like Kings are supposed to do, always left behind, always waiting while men were fighting and dying for them, and he would have to pray.  
He did not like the idea.  
So he went to her.

They had given her a room in the tower, far from the crowds and the constant noise. Just as she liked it.  
Alistair thought of his wife and son one last time as he ascended the stairs, they buried them in his mind as far as he could, knocked, and pushed the door open.  
She was sitting on the bed, her armor discarded on the floor. In her hands was a withered rose, the once silky petals now dry and grey, ready to crumble.  
 _I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking, how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness? I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I've had it ever since._  
"You kept it", he said softly.  
She did not look at him, instead running her index along a petal. There was a stray of dust on her skin when she lifted it.  
"Of course."  
There were a lot of things he wanted to ask but could not and would not, and he was so afraid to let the moment flee that he did not dare.

She got up, picked a leather-covered book in her bag, and tucked the flower inside. He remembered that book fondly. _The Rose of Orlais._ It was the one Wynne had used to teach her when she had realized that Alienage Elves did not know how to read.  
A shame, really.  
The new Bann had remedied to that. Amongst other things.  
Kallian braced herself against the windowsill, looking outside. The sun was setting down, and it was glowing red, painting the mountains with blood. She did not have her gloves on, and he noticed the small golden band on her finger. He knew that ring, too. Her wedding ring. The one she had picked on her betrothed's cooling corpse. She had the habit of fidgeting with it whenever she was lost in thoughts, and he had never seen her taking it off, except...except when they had been making love.  
"People will talk", she said.  
"Does it matter?"  
She shrugged.  
"No."

Alistair strode toward her and embraced her from behind, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She went completely stiff.  
 _Just this once_ , he thought, and buried his face in her hair. It was soft, as it had always been, but he discovered a few grey strands within the brown curls, barely noticeable.  
 _And she's not even thirty._  
Kallian leaned against him. He could feel the tension in her body, as though she might push him away at any time and flee. She smelled of elfroot and crystal grace and rain. That, at least, had not changed, and stupied tears blurred Alistair's eyes.  
"Just this once", he said. "I never got to give you a proper goodbye."  
His hands slid to her waist, and she covered them with hers, holding him in place. She did not have soft hands, never had. They were calloused and rough, the hands of a rogue, of a commoner, never of a lady. They were warm, though, and warm also was the skin he could feel beneath the simple tunic she wore.  
"We shouldn't be doing this", she protested weakly.  
He barely noticed the ring falling from her finger, clattering on the wooden floor with a dull metallic sound.  
"No, we shouldn't", he agreed, humming against the skin of her neck, eyes shut, as he gently pulled her toward the bed.  
He no longer cared.

* * *

 **To be continued...**


	6. Chapter 6

**And here is the latest chapter! The ending is quite open , it's up to you to imagine what happens after that...**

* * *

Chapter 6

He woke up to an empty bed, the place were she had been still warm, and the ghost of her touch still burning on his bare skin, although cold with dried sweat. The skies outside were barely starting to lighten.  
He felt empty. Satisfied but empty.  
Kallian was sitting on the edge of the bed, fastening the leather straps of her armor, her back turned to him.  
Ten years ago, she would have dozed off in his arms until he woke, curled in a ball against his side. Apparently, she did not trust him enough to do that anymore.  
Her fingers were trembling. The silverite clasps seemed unwilling to do their office and he heard her swear softly under her breath.

His hand came to rest at the small of her back, and she stilled.  
"Here", he said. "Let me help".  
He sat up, untangled his legs from the sheets, and reached for the clasps, gently tugging them.  
"There. Done."  
"Thank you", she said.  
She started to rise, and he caught her hand, fingers wound tight around hers.  
"Alistair."  
She looked lost. Distressed. Her eyes were pleading.  
 _Don't._  
And he felt like she was slowly ripping his heart form his chest, piece by piece, tearing it to shreds with her fingernails. Taking back what she had given, what he thought had been lost to him for nearly a decade, what was now slipping like sand between his fingers again.  
"I know", he sighed sadly. "I know."  
"Once I walk that door, Alistair, this will be over", she said.  
He knew.

He did not want it to be over, no, he did not. But it had to be, and now his thoughts were drifting again to Anora, to Duncan, to his wife and his son that he had just betrayed and...  
 _Oh, Maker._  
What had he done?  
He reached for her face, craddling it with his hands, and rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes in acceptance. Or defeat. He did not really know for sure.  
 _There._  
It was a farewell.  
They had to set each other free, and if they did not...  
"I love you", he whispered.  
"And I you, you big stupid fool", she said, turning her head slightly to kiss the inside of his wrist. "Always."  
And they were ten years backwards, after the Landsmeet, and _this_ , this is how it should have ended, this is how they should have said goodbye.  
It was about time.

 _In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice._  
Those were the words of the Grey Wardens, and now he understood the extent of their meaning.  
For the sake of Ferelden, for the sake of his duty, he still would have had to let her go, even had she sent the Traitor Teyrn's head rolling at Anora's feet.  
She had not.  
It had taken him ten years to understand why. But she, she was a clever, bright girl, who had always understood the way of the world better and faster than he had ever did.  
Yet, there he was, unable to let go of her.

"Will you come and visit?" he asked. "In Denerim?"  
"Will you allow Loghain to see his grandson?" she retorted.  
He pouted.  
"That's not fair."  
 _Damn._  
He would not let the wretched man anywhere near his son.  
The boy already thought that the Orlesian ambassador was a _mean old coot who talks and smells funny_. He did not need Loghain's absurd hatred of anything related to Orlais to poison his young mind.  
But then again...  
 _Daughters never grow up, Anora. They remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees. Forever._  
Surely he would not harm his own flesh and blood, the little bundle of joy that had the entire court wrapped around his little finger.  
"I'll...consider it", he said reluctantly.  
Kallian smirked.  
"Then perhaps, I'll come along."  
It did not ensure anything. It was...a hypothesis. At best. But he knew when she was lying, and she was not.  
'Goodbye, Alistair", Kallian whispered, and dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead.  
Her lips lingered for a moment, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He was not sure he wanted to see her go.

She slipped out of his grasp and stood, wincing.  
"You savaged me, you brute", she exclaimed, rubbing her hips, looking so indignant that he laughed.  
Being with her again, skin to skin, hands intertwined, hearts beating in harmony, not knowing where she ended and he began, it had felt good. Right. Perfect. It had felt like finally going home.  
He could have died there, his deathbed the cradle of her thighs, exhaling his last breath through one of her kisses. He could have died, and died _happy_.  
She was _his_. His to claim and his to love and his, his, _his_ , and he had felt so greedy, of her skin and her lips and of every touch and every kiss and every broken whimper he could get out of her.  
And he was _hers_. Hers to love and her to use and hers, only _hers_ , and she had held him tight and taken all that he had to give and _more_.  
It had been so long.  
No one could blame him for being slightly enthusiastic.  
"Grey Warden stamina", he snickered, and she grabbed a pillow and threw it in his face.

Her laughter was the last thing he could catch of her before she disappeared down the stairs, and for a moment, it was the girl Kallian, with her freckles and her smile and her bright eyes and her wide, wide heart, not Warden Commander Tabris, that he saw going away from him, .  
He thought to call her back, but she was gone. Gone, and yet she was still here, everywhere, surrounding him while he laid there, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his heart.  
With a heavy sigh, Alistair reached for his clothes on the floor.

He suddenly felt very cold, and the coldness did not leave his bones, and seemed to spread through his limbs as he stood next to Lady Montilyet on the battlement, watching the armies leaving Skyhold to march on Adamant Fortress.  
The Inquisitor was leading the way, riding on a gigantic Halla, Hawke at her right and Kallian at her left.  
 _Look back at me._  
He hoped.  
She did not.  
So he waited.

He waited and waited and waited, looking at the sky for black spots that announced crows that announced news.  
Cold and alone and his heart slowly crumbling, he waited.  
He prayed the Maker and the Holy Andraste, and despaired at their silence.

Then, he woke up one bright morning, and the Calling was gone. The alluring whispers, the discordant song at the back of his mind had stopped, and even the very air he breathed suddenly tasted different.  
He did not know what to make of that.  
That same evening, a crow made his way to Leliana's office, carrying a sealed scroll. He was there when she unrolled it, and he was there to see her smile as her blue eyes shifted nervously up and down the parchment.  
"They're coming back", she said. "Adamant Fortress has been taken."  
And he thought he might cry. There were no words of _her_. He knew what had been earned, but not what had been lost.

He did not know what had become of her.  
Her, with her lethal blades and iron will and countless scars, and her distorted hip that was weighing her down. There was a scar, there, an ugly old white thing stretched over the prominent bone that had never healed correctly. He had seen a flash of pain in her eyes when he had gently pressed his hands there to pin her down on the mattress, and so he had kissed the rugged tissues and called her beautiful, forcing a ragged moan out of her throat, but for a moment, it had scared him.  
It was a weakness. And weaknesses could kill.  
Even her.  
Especially her.  
She hated to be weak.  
And she would swallow her pain and say nothing and keep all of it for herself. And if she did not come back...

If she did not come back, he would have at least made his peace with her, and maybe some of the pain she would have never shared with anyone would have vanished.  
But he would not think of her not coming back.  
She would come back.  
She would come back and he would show her how beautiful Denerim was now that the last visible signs of the Blight had disappeared.  
He would show her the Alienage, that thrived under Bann Shianni's guidance.  
He would show her the roses in Anora's garden, the bush he had planted himself, the same as the one he had once picked in Lothering.  
He would introduce her to his son and they would play hide-and-seek together, just like she did with Kieran.  
He would...  
She would come back.  
She had to.  
So he waited.

The fifth day, the armies went back and flooded the courtyard, hundreds of voices, Inquisition soldiers and Grey Wardens alike, celebrating a victory he had no part in. And he felt no joy, not as his eyes searched frantically for her in the waves of smiling faces and grey and green and blue armors, that seem to blurr in something indescribable and terrifying.  
She was there.  
She had to be there.  
She had to.  
And then he saw her, riding through the crowd, her hair freed from her cowl hanging over her face in disarray, and he realized that for a moment he had stopped to breath.

He waited until she dismounted her horse, and her knees buckled under her weight as soon as she touched the earth. He ran toward her in a very unkingly manner, and caught her before she fell, and crushed her in his arms. Kallian's face and hair and armor were matted with dried blood and dirt and smoke and of dried blood and dirt and smoke she smelled, but under the stench his nose could still catch the elfroot and crystal grace and rain.  
She was alive.  
She was safe.  
Blessed be the Maker, who had brought her back to him.  
Alistair felt her tremble against him, her face buried in his shoulder as he rocked her gently.  
He did not care if hundreds of eyes could see them.  
He was the bloody King.  
He did what he wanted.

When she pushed him away, her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Something was missing. He did not know what it was.  
"Hawke is gone", she said, and he thought of blood stains accross white skin and scarred wrists and angry eyes and lost loves.  
She smiled sadly.  
"I think she wanted to die."  
And she, she was alive and well and fine and he wanted to weep, but not for Hawke.  
"Safe", Cole said, passing them by. "Strong and warm, my love, it feels safe and right and happy, my heartbeat the same rhythm as yours, finally home, never lost, never again."  
"Come there, Creepy, leave them alone" Sera screeched, and grabbed the boy by the wrist and dragged him away.

Kallian took a step back and cleared her throat.  
"I have received words", she said. "From Loghain and Nathaniel. They found something."  
Immediately, he understood.  
"You are leaving" he stated.  
"I am."  
"Will you come back?" he asked, folding his arms expectantly.  
Behind him, the crowd cheered. The Qunari yelled somehing in his native tongue, and laughters filled the courtyard.  
"I will", Kallian said.  
"Swear it."  
She hiked a brow, and he nodded encouragingly.  
"I swear", she sighed.  
"Good", he said.

On the battlements, the Inquisitor and the Commander were holding hands.  
They were young, and beautiful, and they were free. They were what could have been and was not. The sight of their happiness left a bittersweet taste in Alistair's mouth. Yet it was not sorrow that was tightening his throat.  
Not really.  
The King took the Warden's hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles.  
"Farewell, my lady."  
Somehow, he knew.  
He would see her again.

* * *

 **The end. But I will probably write more about them (I confess, I originally planned that Kallian would be the one left in the Fade. In my playthrough, I had Loghain and Hawke, and Hawke died, because Anders was dead as well. But I can't kill them all...)**


End file.
